Afflicted
by Burnout Black
Summary: There isn't a day that goes by without her wondering if her future is slipping between her fingers, as swiftly and surely as tiny grains of sand. A collection of tales on Thirteen from her first day at PPTH to her last.
1. A Rush of Blood to the Head

Disclaimer: I don't own House MD. I don't own Coldplay. See below the story for additional comments and musings. **  
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**Afflicted**

_Prompt I. A Rush of Blood to the Head_

She's not sure if she's ready for this.

The doors to Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital are strangely plain, finely crafted from plastic and shined wood. They're deceptive; they give a false sense that if you go in through the doors, you can just as easily leave. But that's not true.

She knows this.

Nothing's ever that easy.

Just like how it's not easy to take that extra step that will bring her through those doors, like how it's not easy to stand in the paths of patients (some sick, some not) as they ebb and flow around her like the receding tide.

Her feet are frozen to the laminated floor and the nurses stare at her in unabashed bewilderment. _Move_. She tells herself. _Move_.

She's not scared.

The slight shaking of her hands means nothing and the acceleration of her heartbeat has nothing to do with this. She swallows, but it feels like her throat is closing up, and she's choking, choking.

She's not scared. This is what she tells herself as she makes her way blindly to the lecture hall. She lies to herself, lies because that is all she can do, lies because they are the only things keeping her barely-there dream alive.

Her false truths are finely woven, sewn from the delicately crafted threads of deception and shined with delusion. They trap her like those doors, seemingly easy to command and bend to her will. But she knows better.

Nothing's ever that easy.

So she lies.

* * *

Word Count: 256 words 

Author's Notes: Thirteen is one of my favorite characters on House even though she's only been around for a very short time. Her enigma and philosophical way of thinking has really garnered my admiration and interest. I've written this particular chapter over five separate times, always striving to capture that part of her character that really speaks to me. Here's to hoping I succeeded. To all the readers who wonder at my strange choice of prompts, Coldplay's music is well thought out with deeper meanings behind the initial lyrics, and I figured they would serve a fitting purpose for my plan. Review if you have the time and feel that this is worthy of a comment or two. The encouragement is always a bright light in my otherwise mundane days.


	2. Twisted Logic

Disclaimer: I don't own House MD or Coldplay. I think we've safely established this as fact, so there will no longer be any disclaimers for future chapters.

**Afflicted**

_Prompt II. Twisted Logic_

She doesn't understand this, doesn't understand the casual handing of an identity out.

She has a label, something else for others to call her by. She is no longer a person, no longer a _name_ that once stood for something—maybe many things. She is a number and she can hear the snickering of other applicants as she turns around, flashing the bold number for the world to see.

_Thirteen_.

An unlucky number. A cursed number. It stands for betrayal in religion and for Death in the tarot cards.

House is looking at her, glinting blue eyes assessing, waiting for a reaction. This is her test to pass. The laughter fades into the background as she turns back to him, a jaded smile on her lips. Her eyes are shuttered, seeing everything and offering nothing in return. It isn't a fair exchange, House thinks, but then again, when has he ever cared about being _fair_?

He shifts his gaze back to the line of number-less applicants and hands the unordinary fourteen nametag to a sniveling and pompous ass. She's passed her first test and for that, she passes the first round.

"So, Thirteen, what does it feel like to have such an _unlucky_ number?"

"Yeah. It must be so hard for you. I'd offer to trade, but I'm only half of a number."

She looks at the two twins, one dubbed 15A and the other, 15B, and gives an insincere smile. "Numbers have nothing to do with this. I would be a fool to be so easily felled by superstition."

She is Thirteen and Thirteen is her.

She's not afraid of the number, but the other applicants should be. Thirteen, after all, is only unlucky to the people around it. She lays claim to immunity.

Then again, she's never believed in superstition.

* * *

Author's Notes: I know some people think that these chapters are extraordinarily short. This is my intention. Afflicted is not meant to be a collection of lengthy and untied one-shots; it is meant to be a collection of fragmented events, long enough only to describe the particular emotions within a scene. I apologize if this is a disappointment to you guys, but this is the way I intended for the story to be. Feel free to drop a comment; it really does make me feel a lot better. 


	3. The Scientist

**Disclaimer: **I don't own House MD or Coldplay. See below the drabble for my usual Author's Note.

**Afflicted**

_Prompt III. The Scientist_

He looks so peaceful, she thinks. He looks like he's just sleeping, arms folded underneath the blanket and his body stationary on the cold, steel table. But he isn't sleeping, her mind knows because he is dead and she can't ignore the truth anymore. He isn't sleeping and she will never rest again.

He is dead. Gone. Murdered.

She looks blankly at her hands _(so thin and nimble, so delicate)_ and wonders where it all went wrong. She should've stayed with him to see him swallow those two pills. She should've stayed with him for those two extra seconds. She should've, could've, but didn't. It's no longer a game and she wonders when it ever was a game. She should've known better than that, to play games with human lives as easily as rolling a dice or betting on a horse race. She isn't House. She knows that now. She isn't going to be right all the time. She isn't going to always do the right thing or make the perfect diagnosis. She can't play this game of being God. But she did and now she is a murderer, the word branded on her still-beating heart _(but oh—oh it hurts to even breathe, to move, to think)_.

Her wings have melted and she is sinking in the ocean.

She buries her head in her hands and wishes she could turn back time. She wants to be Mary Shelley's Victor Frankenstein and resurrect the dead, even at the cost of her sanity. But indeed what sanity does she have left? With nothing but the forbidding sound of a never-ending clock and the pale and lifeless body of her victim _(for she is surely as guilty of murder as if she had taken a knife and cut out his heart with it)_ she's not sure if she will ever be the same anymore.

"Did you do the autopsy?" House's eyes are glimmering with that ever-present keenness of mind as he hobbles into the gray and sterile room. His eyes trace over the fine incisions and the shaking scalpel in her hand.

"I…I had it right." She chokes out and hates the way her voice wavers, the way her mind still clings to the fact that at least she had the right diagnosis. It's not a game anymore. It isn't. It never has been. She knows this now. "Why don't you just fire me now, like you did to everyone else? I killed him. Go on, get it over with." She's angry at herself for still caring about being on the team, for killing an innocent man, for failing to be everything that she swore she would be.

House stays quiet for a moment and then leans forward heavily so that all she can see is the steel-like resolve in his startling blue eyes _(all the color left in this white-washed room and pale, dead skin) _

"You're still in the game. You messed up once, but you'll never do this again. You've learned your lesson."

A lesson. She wonders and thinks and cries inside where her heart still pulsates with the strange thing called life. All this for a lesson. One human's suffering and life all for a lesson.

She closes her eyes and lets the first tears fall.

* * *

Author's Note: I tend to update this slowly because she hasn't had a lot of scenes so far and I don't want to use everything up so soon. But never fear, I will keep going on with this. I apologize for the horrendously long update. Comments are greatly appreciated! 


	4. Shiver

**Disclaimer:** I still do not own House MD, although the scene with Amber was heartbreakingly beautiful. It almost made me like her character—almost. The scene here is a little altered to display what might have happened, or rather an extra add-on to what did happen. So the author's note will explain everything.

**Afflicted**

_Prompt IV. Shiver_

"You know, the morgue attendant told me that the dead speak to her. She keeps seeing her mother." Amber's tone is silky and sly, hidden carefully behind a bored expression. But even when feigning carelessness, the only other female doctor can't hide the slight sneer twisting her lip. It distorts an otherwise pretty face, giving it an ugly edge of awareness.

You humor her, haunted memories of an accidental murder still burning a hole in the back of your head. "Hallucination. We've already added that to the white board. Has she exhibited any other symptoms?" Your tone is a little impatient, eyes flickering back and forth between the steady ticking of the clock _(it brings back images of a clock ticking, ticking, ticking and a dead man's face staring back from a bed of steel) _and your slightly shaking hands. There's a dead silence that follows your question and you turn, an exasperated sentence ready to be said.

A dog's collar greets you.

"You know who else she says she can see? She says she keeps on seeing a man in a wheelchair, with a dog next to him. He says he was killed—_murdered_." And still, she says it in that singularly sly and infuriatingly neutral way. Your hands clench and your eyes stay riveted to the little red collar. "Oh! How did that get here, you know, that's a little creepy." Amber backs away, her features rearranging themselves into one of honest and complete surprise—innocence.

There is no such thing as ghosts. Humans can't see the dead. The dead don't talk. And red dog collars don't randomly appear in front of the doctor who killed their owners. You want to laugh, throw your head back and say that you've finally lost the last marble rolling around in your brain. But you don't. You reach out for the collar, loved like a past ghost, ignoring your hands as they shake. You've never believed in superstitions. You still don't. The patient in the room is forgotten. The world narrows until it's just you and the voice of a dead man echoing in your ears.

He is your ghost to carry. Your burden.

You know that at least Amber understands that much.

Later, when you're trying to stem the blood pouring out of Irene's mouth as she reacts to the eye test, you think of blond hair and a pair of cunning blue eyes. You think of a too-red mouth perpetually twisted into a cruel and calculating expression.

But all you see is a red dog collar and a man's blood on your hands.

You can't stop shivering.

* * *

Word Count: 615

Author's Note: It's been awhile since I last watched the episode, so this can definitely be considered slightly AU. The relationship between Thirteen and Amber has always fascinated me, the way Amber loudly proclaims her hatred and plots to catch her adversary off guard. And Thirteen with a subtle disapproval in her eyes, a slight gesture that denotes her dislike for Ms. Cutthroat Bitch. It's a silent, threatening sort of hatred that ties them together. This was written in second person because I felt I could drive the point home better. The next drabbles/one-shots should all be in third person again. I'm sorry of that threw you guys off. Please continue to review! The comments really make my day.


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